As above the dark­est storm cloud
Shines the sun, se­rene­ly bright
Waiting to re­store to na­ture
All the glo­ry of his light,
So, be­hind each cloud of sor­row,
So, in each af­flict­ion, stands,
Hid, an an­gel, with a bless­ing
From the Fa­ther in his hand.

As with­out the tem­pest, pour­ing
O’er the earth the wel­come rain,
All were but a fruit­less des­ert,
Barren sand for rip­en­ing grain,
So if ne’er a cloud of sad­ness
Veiled the sun­shine of the soul,
If af­flict­ion’s waves were nev­er
Suffered o’er the heart to roll.

Love and faith might fail for­ev­er
To bring forth their fruits of peace;
Heaven’s good seed of truth would per­ish
In a thor­ny wil­der­ness.
So, with cloud and storm and tem­pest
Grows our earth­ly sum­mer dim,
That the re­bel heart, our Fa­ther
Thus may win to turn to Him.